


Healing

by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett (xaandria)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, sensual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Jacqueline%20Albright-Beckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel can heal more than just physical wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the inestimable frecklesarechocolate.

Dean hated stitching himself up more than anything else about hunting.  
  
Usually Sam was the one with the needle, and Dean could just take swigs of whiskey and manage to ignore the sickly stabs that punctuated the hot smear of the injury they were trying to fix. But Sam had muttered something that morning about crappy wifi and had headed to the library, where he was now on his third hour of ignoring his cell phone, and Dean had had to do _something_ about the stab wound next to his collarbone. Normally that something would be staying still and ignoring it until Sam got back, but even hours later it was still oozing blood in a disconcerting way and it gaped open with every breath Dean took. He supposed he should also be worried about the fact that his arm had gone numb, but he’d take things one at a time.  
  
He hadn’t taken into account how difficult it was to tie a knot in the smooth suture material with one hand, though, particularly when he had not foregone the several swigs of whiskey before he’d started. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as the loops slipped again.  
  
Movement in the motel room caught Dean’s eye. He’d recognize the corner of that trench coat anywhere. “Hey, Cas. In here.”  
  
“Dean. Are you hurt?” Castiel peered into the bathroom where Dean was perched on the edge of the bathtub.  
  
Dean glanced at the blood spatters that glistened against the white of the tub. There certainly were a lot of them. “No, I’m peachy.” He gestured at his bare shoulder, also smeared with red and dripping alarmingly down his chest. “Just a flesh wound.”  
  
As usual, the sarcasm and pop culture reference sailed right over Castiel’s head as he knelt next to Dean. “That is more than just a flesh wound,” he disagreed. “You’ve severed some of the nerves in your brachial plexus, nicked a major blood vessel, and this entire shoulder will be badly infected in three days.” He looked up at Dean disapprovingly.  
  
“What? It’s not like I did it on purpose.” Dean winced; talking required deeper breaths and they tugged at the ragged line of stitches. “Blame the dude with the knife.”  
  
“You need to be more careful.” Castiel raised one hand, pausing just before he touched the wound. “May I?” He waited for Dean’s nod before touching his thumb to the fevered flesh ever so slightly, running it along the edges in something very nearly a caress. Dean flinched; it did not hurt so much as itch intensely as the flesh knitted itself in the trail of Castiel’s touch. This was not like the other times the angel had healed him, one split second of heady rush like falling and then suddenly feeling refreshed. This was something much slower, much more focused.  
  
Dean liked it.  
  
He watched numbly as Castiel lifted his thumb and then scowled - well, for Castiel it was a scowl: a tiny furrow of the brow and a pursing of the lips. “Sorry. That was sloppy of me.” He ran his thumb over the hair-thin silver line that was all that was left of the wound. “It left a scar.” He began to lift his hand away and -  
  
Perhaps it was because Dean’s mind was still on the fuzzy side from the whiskey; perhaps it was the utter exhaustion that dulled his keen edge that was so good at denying the obvious; perhaps it was because he couldn’t deny how fervently his skin was crying out for more of that ineffable touch.  
  
\- Dean grabbed the angel’s wrist.  
  
In a moment that seemed to span several, Castiel’s gaze shifted, chin lifting just slightly to look Dean in the eyes. The lines on his forehead smoothed as his brows unfurrowed in an expression of gentle surprise. “Dean?” He relaxed his hand, letting it rest back on Dean’s collarbone, and Dean closed his eyes and nodded, ever so slightly, as he let his own hand drop.  
  
At first Castiel simply rested his hand there, rising and falling with Dean’s breathing. Dean kept his eyes closed, leaning forward slightly, hands gripping the edge of the tub to keep himself from falling forward. Then, so softly that Dean thought he might be imagining it, Castiel began running his fingers along Dean’s collarbone. Dean could not suppress the shiver or the goosebumps that rose across his shoulders and arms. As though emboldened by this reaction, Castiel’s fingertips ventured further - tracing along the lines of Dean’s neck, across the shoulder and all the way down to Dean’s wrist before retracing their path back up and then down the other arm.  
  
“Like this?”  
  
Dean didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t trust himself to think. A thousand different versions of himself were bellowing at him, demanding to know what he was doing, that this was not - why was he letting Castiel - why was he _asking_ Castiel -?  
  
As if in defiance of those thousand voices, Dean leaned forward and pressed his lips to the angel’s forehead, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the dark locks as he lowered his forehead to rest against Castiel’s. A moment later Dean felt fingers raking through his own hair, and the touch sent more shivers down his back that settled at the base of his spine and ignited, sending his whole body into a tiny shudder as his cock stirred and began to take great interest in the proceedings.  
  
“You’re trembling.” Dean had never heard Castiel speak in such a hushed tone before. He opened his eyes and for the barest of seconds wished he hadn’t - Castiel’s were so intensely blue and close that it made his breath hitch, an exquisite kind of pain blossoming deep within his chest at the thought - the reality - of the angel being so near.  
  
He tried desperately to say something - something funny, something to defuse the tension - but his mind cast about and came up empty, and all he could manage was an “I -” that sounded more like a croak than anything.  
  
Castiel pressed a finger across Dean’s lips. “This is difficult for you. I know.” His fingers traced along Dean’s jaw line, going back to his neck and resting there, deliciously warm. “Do you want me to continue?”  
  
 _Holy_ _fuck, yes,_ was what crossed Dean’s mind, but a barely perceptible nod would have to do. He felt lightheaded; the entire scene had an unreal, dreamlike quality to it that he grasped at frantically, trying to ground himself within it.  
  
And then Castiel skimmed his palm down Dean’s spine and Dean’s remaining breath left him in a sudden _whoosh_ as he leaned back into the touch, arching his back ever so slightly, head canting back and eyelids drooping as his knees spread slightly for balance on the narrow edge of the tub. Castiel’s hand pressed at the small of his back, keeping him from falling backward, and Dean could feel the angel shifting position, taking advantage of the new space between Dean’s knees to bring himself closer. He felt Castiel rest his forehead against his chest and he tightened his fingers in the angel’s hair - as an anchor for himself? Dean was not altogether sure at this point; he just didn’t want Castiel to go anywhere.  
  
He needn’t have worried; the hand that pressed into the small of his back eased up on the pressure now that Dean was not leaning into it and continued its slow mapping of Dean’s skin, fingers and palm brushing luxuriously softly until a thumb nudged its way under the waistband of Dean’s jeans and boxers to stroke the skin there, sending his body into another shudder. Another rushed exhalation almost became a faint moan as the thumb made its way around his side to the front, where it lay crooked against the buckle of Dean’s belt.  
  
“May I?” The request was nearly a whisper.  
  
Dean licked his lips. “Please.” He almost did not recognize his own voice, guttural and husky with the need that lanced through him. His eyelids fluttered shut as Castiel slowly and carefully undid his belt - the button to his jeans - drew the zipper down -  
  
Castiel’s first brush against Dean’s cock was like ice on feverish skin - not because it was cold, but because the shock of it, the sudden sensitive impulses that shot straight to Dean’s fingertips, made him gasp and even jump slightly. The angel deftly withdrew his hand, bringing Dean’s cock with it, the head already slick with precome. The first swipe of Castiel’s thumb over the head was nearly enough to undo Dean, oversensitized and overstimulated as he was, and his grip on Castiel’s locks was not nearly as gentle as it had been previously. Based on the low, contented humming sound Castiel made at the change in Dean’s grip, the angel did not mind.  
  
Castiel was not even stroking Dean; his fingers played over the shaft and the head gently, maddeningly, squeezing at inconstant intervals that made Dean’s hips twitch. As each second slipped past Dean became keenly aware of how fast his heart was pounding, how shallow his breathing had become, how the tension in his belly coiled hotly as Castiel’s teasing ministrations drew Dean to the edge inexorably slowly.  
  
As though reading Dean’s mind - perhaps he was - Castiel wrapped his fingers around the shaft and began to stroke in earnest, still slowly but with an unmistakable purposefulness. Dean’s mind shattered; the thousand voices had stilled and the only coherent word that floated in the blinding white was “more.” Dean didn’t know if he even said it, gasped it out maybe, and he drooped his chin to rest it atop Castiel’s head, the mussed hair brushing against his nose and smelling of some unnameable combination of snow and lightning and wind.  
  
The coiled tension at the base of Dean’s spine snapped in an expansion of heat, stealing Dean’s breath as the orgasm ripped through him in pulses like an ocean wave. “Cas,” he gasped raggedly, sagging forward as every muscle in him gave way at once. The angel caught him, held him as the last of the aftershocks echoed and the sumptuous lassitude stole over him.  
  
“I will admit,” Castiel said slowly after several moments, during which the two of them simply breathed, “I’ve wanted to do that for some time.”  
  
“What took you so long?” Dean mumbled, eyes still closed as he struggled to find one good reason why he should sit up and break the awkward, draping embrace with the angel kneeling before him.  
  
“Before I did anything, I needed _you_ to know that you wanted it.” Castiel drew back, reaching out to steady Dean as he did so.  
  
“You could’ve said something.” Dean sat back, his head beginning to clear in small increments.  
  
Castiel shook his head. “I’ve been watching you struggle with your self-identity for years. Acting prematurely would have been more hindrance than help.” He coughed. “Not to mention that - well - rejection would have been painful.”  
  
Mind suddenly alighting on something important, Dean looked down at the pale line that had been the gaping wound not so long ago. “So - did you heal me this way on purpose? So that I’d realize I liked -?”  
  
Castiel looked embarrassed. “Not exactly. It was entirely accidental. I’m still not pleased it left a scar.” He reached out and, in an echo of the gesture that had begun this astonishing turn of events, ran his thumb over the line. “I can take it away, if you’ll let me.”  
  
Dean considered that for a moment. “No,” he said, reaching up to curl his fingers around Castiel’s. On an impulse he brought the angel’s knuckles to his lips. “Don’t go erasing the only evidence I have that this really happened.” His half-smile faded. “Otherwise I might try to pretend it didn’t.”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, surprising Dean with how forceful it was. The angel twisted the hand Dean was holding so their fingers laced together and tightened his grip. “You’re past the point where denial is productive - and my getting involved is less complicated now. I’m not going to let you continue to delude yourself.”  
  
Something that was not quite apprehension twisted in Dean’s stomach at Castiel’s words. Denial had been _comforting_. It had been something he was in control of. “You’re wrong,” he said, looking up into Castiel’s eyes. “You make this as complicated as shit.” He gestured with the hand that was still being held tightly. “But if it means I get to do this, then - I can probably handle some complications.”  
  
“It isn’t going to be easy.”  
  
“No,” Dean agreed. “Healing never is.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a tiny grin. “Having an angel around makes it easier, though.”  
  
The answering smile lines around Castiel’s eyes plucked at something deep within Dean’s chest and he leaned forward, once again resting his chin atop the angel’s head and shutting his eyes as he inhaled deeply. He’d get around to the excruciating self-examination later. Right now, he had some healing to do.  
  
  



End file.
